Meet At Joe's

PROLOGUE JUST DROPPED IN

I woke up this mornin' with the sundown shinin' in

I found my mind in a brown paper bag within

I tripped on a cloud and fell-a eight miles high

I tore my mind on a jagged sky

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in

I pushed my soul in a deep dark hole and then I followed it in

I watched myself crawlin' out as I was a-crawlin' in...

"Just Dropped in" written by Mickey Newbury and, in 1968, a chart hit for Kenny Rogers and the First Edition

POV: Chuck (founder of James Clerk Maxwell Investigations an agency specializing in the detection and prevention of cybercrimes and someone who always starts his stories with a bang.)

BANG! The report of the seven rifles broke the solemn serenity of the idyllic setting. Cemeteries are always such peaceful and picturesque places, especially military ones. The meticulously mowed meadows, the rows and rows of uniform gravestones mimicking the precision that had been a hallmark of so many of those who had found their final resting place here. The crisp morning air and slightly overcast sky made it a perfect day for the ceremony.

I was observing from a distance. One really doesn't want to be seen at one's own funeral. Hence, the closed casket. Besides, seeing me would no doubt upset the attendees and would spoil everything. I'll explain in a bit. For now, I just wanted to appreciate the pomp and circumstance.

BANG! The second of the three volleys reminded me of the history behind the salute. The three volleys come from an old battlefield custom. The two warring sides would cease hostilities to clear their dead from the battlefield, and the firing of three volleys meant that the dead had been properly cared for and the side was ready to resume the battle. Very appropriate for a funeral. The volleys were not as I once believed a twenty-one-gun salute. A conclusion I had come to because there are usually seven rifles fired three times. But twenty-one-gun salutes are reserved for other events and as everyone in the military knows, a rifle is not a gun. I still remember from bootcamp the recruit who made the mistake of calling his rifle a gun and was forced to hold his rifle in one hand and his male appendage in the other and repeat, "This is my rifle and this is my gun. One is for killing and one is for fun." I digress, but that is just the way my mind works. Those who know me are used to it.

I scanned the vastness of the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery. The sheer number of graves should be saddening, but for me it was rather uplifting. It reminded me that I had been a part of something much greater than myself. To be associated with so many people who had been willing to lay down their lives for a greater cause is a real honor. Of course, like me, most of them survived their tours of duty, but still we were all willing to make that supreme sacrifice and a military funeral was our final reward for making that commitment.

BANG! The final report rang out disrupting my musings. I really wanted to relish this moment. It was perfect. There was a slight breeze. It was just enough to dry the tears everyone was trying to hold back. That was the one drawback. I hated putting all my loved ones through this. My wife Rogue, our adopted daughter Victoria, our extended family Pixie, Ripley, Sara, Percy, Roger and Mrs. Crowley with Doctor Jack. Even Kirby, Agent Lee, and Detective Visconti were there.

Hard to say who was crying the most, Roger or Rogue and they both should have known better. The tears that hurt me the most were those of my adopted daughter, Victoria. Her life had had enough tragedy. Her mother died when she was a baby. Her father died when she was four. His family belonged to the Alexandroff Ukrainian mob. He had done his best to keep her isolated from them. Before she came to live with Rogue and me, she was basically raised by a series of nannies. In his will, he asked me to become her guardian knowing I would do what it would take to keep her away from his disreputable family. The story of how this came about is a bit complicated and can be found in my "Sharing Afflictions" trilogy. Yeah, Victoria's tears hurt the most.

Victoria was twenty-one now and was about to receive a sizeable inheritance left to her by her father. We are not sure how and despite her father's and my best efforts; somehow, her father's family had found out about her and the inheritance.

Their intentions were to influence her to become part of their criminal family. Possibly they were motivated by a sense of family, but more likely they just wanted control of her inheritance. They had contacted me her legal guardian to find out her whereabouts. There were threats. They said she belonged to them, and they intended to make her part of their family – by force if necessary. Needless to say, I was not going to let that happen. Not even over my dead body.

The story that follows is a rather tangled saga involving Victoria and many of her friends who you may have already met in other stories. To avoid confusion, I will be interjecting brief recaps to help you keep things sorted. For those who like ghost stories think of me as your spirit guide on this journey. For those uncertain about the supernatural, you can assume I'm alive and that my funeral is an elaborate deception to prevent the Alexandroffs from finding Victoria.

You see, we had decided the simplest solution would be to fake my death and move Victoria to another town and give her a new name. My wife Rogue and I would take a much-needed leave of absence and turn our detective agency over to our dear friend and colleague, Pixie. We would explain all this to Victoria after the funeral. For now, her grief needed to be convincing. Hopefully, Rogue and Roger didn't over act. There were a couple of strangers present who I assumed belonged to the Alexandroff family. They were using their cell phones to take pictures of the mourners.

Ghost or not, I should leave now. After all, I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in.